


dancing bears, painted wings

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Tsar AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: “My father killed yours for his beliefs.”Dmitry’s blood turn to ice as he stops in his tracks. His heart jumps in his throat, beating so furiously he’s afraid he might throw up. When he turns around to face her again, it’s with a pale face and a ringing in his ears. He points one threatening finger at her as he walks toward her.“If you weren’t a Grand Duchess…” he starts. He’s beaten people to a pulp for less, as a teenager. It really is only her blood, and her guard glaring daggers at the back of his head, that stops Dmitry from truly threatening her.“I’d like to see you try,” she replies, her voice cold. Then she repeats, “My father killed yours for his beliefs. I want to pay you for yours.”“What the fuck does that even mean?”





	dancing bears, painted wings

**Author's Note:**

> After 'come what may' I had promised myself not to write another massive monster historical AU again, and yet here we are. This fic has been in the works for months now and is nowhere near done, so I decided to cut it into three parts instead.
> 
> I am in no way well-versed in politics (or versed at all tbh) and I'm well aware that this is a very simplistic approach to some stuff but [vague hand-wave] fanfic writing, okay.
> 
> (Also please do picture Gleb as Max instead of Ramin, for this version of Gleb is much softer than Ramin's acting choices and suits Max's interpretation better imo)

She stands out like a sore thumb. It is not her clothes – though the coat hanging heavily on her shoulders and the cap hiding her eyes are a little too over-the-top too – but the way she holds herself that gives her away. Straight. Proud. Arrogant. Like she knows, on some very deep level, she is above all of them, better than all of them. Dmitry’s eyes are drawn to her because she stands out in the crowd, and remains on her because he doesn’t know how to look away. 

He’s seen her before, of course. Everybody has. The little icons with her painted portrait are sold at every street corner, along with that of her sisters and the Tsar. Her photographs adorn the first page of newspapers almost every week. He even saw her in a parade once, forever and a lifetime ago. Everyone knows what the Grand Duchess looks like. 

But it is quite something else to have her so close Dmitry could raise his arm and touch her. Quite something else to stare at her from up close. Her lips tug up, smile blossoming on her mouth, when she shares a few words with a street vendor. Her hands are small and delicate, wrapped around an apple that she rubs against her coat. Wisps of auburn hair escape from under her cap and frame her pale face prettily. 

She is something else. No wonder her family turned themselves into god-like figures. Why wouldn’t, when it comes with such grace, such perfection. 

Dmitry can’t help it, when he approaches her. 

“Is it your first time?” he whispers into her ear. The frightened yelp escapes her lips and he chuckle the end of his question, “pretending to be someone you’re not?”

She turns around to glare at him and, if only for a moment, Dmitry is rooted on the spot, mesmerised by the famous blue of her Romanov eyes. She throws metaphorical daggers with the kind of intensity that reminds him that, poor disguise be damned, she could have him hang in a matter of minutes if she so wished. 

“It is not,” she replies, her tone not as snobbish as it is annoyed. She catches herself when Dmitry throws her a victorious grin – she didn’t even pretend not to know what he was talking about – and then she rolls her eyes. “One has to pretend to be a great many things in the public eye.”

Her confession is so candid in how unexpected it is. Nothing about the shine in her eyes leads Dmitry to believe she is lying to him – the simple truth perhaps made even more powerful in how easily it was offered. 

He had never thought of it that way – that royalty may as well be nothing but a mask they wear, a role she plays. He looks at her, the way she fidgets with the belt of her coat, one foot resting above the other, woollen cap drawing shadows in her face. He looks at her and wonders what she’s like, under all those layers of petticoats and good manners. If you took her tiara and striped her would bare, what would remain?

“One always has to pretend to be a great many things these days,” Dmitry answers. 

He doesn’t mean to sound that mysterious, but still she frowns at his words. He’s been pretending all his life after all – that he didn’t miss his mother, that he could survive on the streets without his father, that he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Dmitry’s entire existence is a game of lies and play pretend. 

“What are you doing here?” he challenges before she can reply. From the corner of his eye, he sees the same suspicious man that has been following her around; a guard in disguise, of course. Still. “The streets are dangerous for someone like you.”

Her cheeks puff, just enough to be adorably angry without turning to downright ridiculous, as she makes herself taller. Visibly upset. It makes her look more like a real person, somehow; not just a pretty doll with a pretty crown. She has a temper, and fire in her blood, and Dmitry enjoys it more than he should be allowed, probably. 

“I know how to defend myself,” she argues back. 

Something tells Dmitry she does indeed – that she’s a dirty fighter, and pulling hair and biting into arms. Probably one of those children who would lick your hand if you put in against their mouth. 

“Which way to the Winter Palace?” he asks. 

She takes a large intake of breath, a victorious smirk on her lips, arm raising to show him the direction. It lasts for a second before she frowns, and looks away. His own smirk is nothing short of mocking, and her glare tells him she doesn’t appreciate it. Shame. His smirks are the best. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks again. 

He has no idea why she’s still entertaining him at his point, or why the guard hasn’t told him to back off yet. Is he that little of a threat? That is worrying. Dmitry would like to believe himself threatening enough; you don’t spend fifteen years on the street without learning a few tricks. Not that he would like her to feel threatened but. Well. It’s something to ponder. 

“I wanted to see for myself,” she replies, worrying her bottom lip. “The advisers, they tell Alexei he’s popular among the people, but. I wanted to see if it’s true.”

_ Alexei. _ Dmitry never heard of him like that before; from the formal ‘His Imperial Highness’ to the simpler ‘the Tsar’, with a myriad of less kind nicknames in between, nobody would ever dare to call the Tsar by his given name. And yet she does, tone tinted by the warmth of siblinghood. Another reason to set her apart from the common of mortals. 

Still, Dmitry wonders. What it is like, standing above everyone else. Ruling over people you never talk to, let alone understand. He wonders what those advisers are telling the Tsar, if they are polishing the truth or making it uglier. If some things are left unsaid at the end of the day. If the Tsar cares at all. The last one sure didn’t. 

“Not as unpopular as Nicholas the Bloody,” he can’t help but comments. 

In the second it takes for her to glare at him once more, he remembers he is talking about her father. Dmitry has never been one to follow the philosophy of not talking ill of the dead – they’re dead, what are they going to do about it anyway – but still. Nobody deserves a stranger to be mean about their late father, no matter how awful he was. 

“People wanted a revolution,” he goes on, with less bite in his tone. “Instead they got a child Tsar who is trying his best even if he has no idea what he’s doing. Opinions were always going to be polarised about it.”

This really is not how Dmitry had pictures his day when he woke up this morning – discussing politics with a Grand Duchess – but this is his life now apparently. He is going to be late for work, but he made his bed and is now sleeping in it. 

She looks him up and down, taking in the boots he’s been wearing since he was fifteen, the coat that has seen better days, and the cap hiding his greasy hair. He doesn’t look much. Your typical post-Great War Russian boy, surviving one day at a time. 

“How many meals a day do you have?” she asks. 

Dmitry arches an eyebrow. To embellish the truth so she can be on her merry way and tell her Tsar brother that people are fed and well taken care of. To lie through his teeth and see if it will change anything at all. But, for once, Dmitry settles on the truth. 

“It’s been easier since the end of rationing. But I’m my own man, and I’m good at getting by. It’s more of a struggle for big families. Pilling up in too small housings, sharing meals. Not enough meat for everyone most days, last I’ve heard.”

She’s drinking his every word, nodding along. She looks so damn eager, like she actually fucking care; Dmitry’s stomach twists painfully. Why couldn’t Nicholas the Bloody care too, instead of sending men to their deaths for the crime of rising against an unfair system?

Dmitry has anarchy in his blood. He doesn’t think that the Bolsheviks’ takeover would have worked, in the long run. And he still doesn’t think that putting the Tsarevich on the throne and calling it a day was a solution, either. Yes, the young Tsar decided on a government to help him, like his British cousins before him and, yes, improvements have been made all around. But how long until things go back to normal? Until another tyrant sits in the Winter Palace, with little care for the people?

The Grand Duchess may care today, but then she will go back to her balls and operas and delicate French pastries, and forget all about people who struggle on the streets. 

“Thank you,” she says. For now, she sounds sincere. So much so that he almost wants to believe she has Russia’s best interests at heart. 

He nods his head at her, and watches her go. She raises the apple to her mouth and bites into it as she walks away. Such a simple gesture, before she looks over her shoulder to send him one last smile around her mouthful, but it still leaves his stomach in knots. Dmitry refuses to ponder why. 

 

…

 

His favourite thing after work is to stop by the riverbank to smoke a cigarette before he finds his way home. There is nothing fancy about it, but tobacco was such a rare commodity during the war that he feels like indulging himself every time he puts the cigarette to his mouth. 

The old woman he shares a flat with hates the smell of it clinging to the curtains. He only agreed never to smoke inside if only because her vatrushkas are to die for and Dmitry doesn’t want to fall from her good graces. The view of the Neva in the sunset is better that his poor joke of a sad apartment anyway. 

“Dmitry Konstantinovich,” someone says as they come to stand next to him. He stills at the use of his full patronymic, unused to being addressed so formally. 

His eyes widen, just a bit, at the sight of her. Her outfit is different this time, makes her look less like she just tumbled off a train from the Ural. More of a Petersburg nobody like there are so many. 

He nods his head in a parody of a bow. “Your Imperial something something.”

She stares at him for a second too long, before she looks away. It does a terrible job of hiding her tiny smile from him, and Dmitry finds himself smirking back. He would rather her finding his mocking words amusing than offending, for his own sake. 

“You’re a hard man to find,” she comments. 

Dmitry scoffs loudly. And yet you found me, he wants to say. Even without a name, she founds him. The palace’s intelligence found him. And doesn’t that say a lot about the kind of power she has – she needed little more than a short encounter to get a name and a location. Maybe he should make a run for it already, just in case. 

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

He turns around so he can rest his back against the railing, arms stretching to the sides. His cigarette dangles from his fingers, hand almost brushing against the heavy fabric of her coat. He should lean away from her. She doesn’t step back. Instead, she plucks the cigarette from his fingers and puts it to her lips. Her intake of breath turns into the ugliest of coughs, and Dmitry bursts into laughter. A man in a dark coat takes a few steps toward them, and Dmitry sighs before he shakes his head. 

She startles a little, still coughing out her lungs, when he pats her back. “Careful there, princess. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“How can you smoke that? Willingly?”

She makes a face, and he fights back another laugh, least she takes offense in his reaction. Still it doesn’t stop a smirk from lifting one corner of his mouth, and she glares at him. Just a little. 

“I don’t do it for the taste, believe me.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, like a child who had a taste of Brussels sprouts for the first time, before she hands him the cigarette back. He takes a drag slowly, then tilts his head up so he can blow the smoke away from her face. 

“Why are you here?” he asks at last. She must have a reason for seeking him out, for going out of her way to find him in the streets of Petersburg. Whatever it is, it must not be good, and Dmitry already regrets asking. He quite enjoys his life of anonymity, getting by without making waves. Just another nobody. 

“I need your help,” she replies, purposely mysterious. Dmitry’s patience runs low in about five seconds at her games. “Well, no. I’m here to offer you a job.”

He laughs again. 

“Excuse me, what?”

Her eyes are dark and unamused as she stares at him, obviously losing patience. But the idea is so ridiculous that Dmitry can’t take it at face value, not like this. There is now way the Grand Duchess, fourth in line for the throne, would offer him a job simply because… they had a two-minute conversation that led nowhere? Even his wildest dreams are not quite as wild as this. 

“Will you quit laughing,” she says, and slaps his shoulder. 

The gesture is so unexpected that he indeed stops, if only to stare down at her, bewildered. Her nostrils are flailing a little, and he is reminded that she is only a young woman who has spent years in seclusion – first because of her crazy mother, then because of the revolutionaries. She must not exactly be used to normal social interactions. Or not to have someone immediately agreeing with her. A bit of both, most likely. 

“Why did you do that for?” he exclaims loudly, rubbing his shoulder for show. 

“You are making fun of me!” she pouts. Cute. 

“Only because you’re joking.”

She puffs her cheeks a little, closed fists on her hips – the spitting image of a child having a tantrum – before she deflates, just a little. Hands still on her hips, she tilts her head at him. Her hair fall from her shoulder, to her back, and Dmitry gets distracted by the exposed skin of her neck, smooth and fair. He wonders if anyone even kissed her there and –

“I am serious,” she replies. “I have an offer, and you would be smart to accept it.”

“You’re insane,” he states, before he pushes himself away from the railing. 

He takes one final, long drag of his cigarette before he drops it to the ground and stomps on it with the tip of his boot. If he makes it home now, he can pack everything in half an hour and catch the evening train to Moscow. Maybe he’ll be able to travel to Berlin from there. Lots of jobs in German factories since the war ended, he will be fine and away from that damn imperial family. 

He only manages a few feet away from her before she speaks up. “My father killed yours for his beliefs.”

Dmitry’s blood turn to ice as he stops in his tracks. His heart jumps in his throat, beating so furiously he’s afraid he might throw up. When he turns around to face her again, it’s with a pale face and a ringing in his ears. He points one threatening finger at her as he walks toward her. 

“If you weren’t a Grand Duchess…” he starts. He’s beaten people to a pulp for less, as a teenager. It really is only her blood, and her guard glaring daggers at the back of his head, that stops Dmitry from truly threatening her. 

“I’d like to see you try,” she replies, her voice cold. Then she repeats, “My father killed yours for his beliefs. I want to pay you for yours.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

She flinches at his curse, another sharp reminder of her upbringing. Fuck her and her good manners, her stupid etiquette, her everything. Fuck her for looking into his past like he’s nothing but a pawn in her games, looking for his weaknesses so she could use them to her advantage. 

“Follow me,” she says instead of replying, and her voice leaves no room for argument.

Which, of course, means Dmitry argues back immediately. “Why? Why should I trust you? What does all of this even mean?”

She only offers him a deadpan stare, head slightly tilt to the side, as she pushes herself away from the railing. She is so small that, when she comes to stand in front of him, her eyes are to an even level with his collarbone. It doesn’t stop her from glaring up at him, and Dmitry is the one to feel small under the intensity of her eyes.

“Follow me,” she says again, and it doesn’t sound like an invitation anymore. It’s an order. An order from a Grand Duchess, and he would be stupid not to follow it. Smarter people have disappeared for less than that, he knows it all too well.

Still, never one to give up without a fight, or without the last word, he replies, “Alright, but make it quick. My wife worries if I come back home late.”

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Your nonexistent wife has nothing to worry about,” she says, before she turns on her heels and walks away.

Her guard doesn’t follow her, instead waiting around as to assess the situation and adapt. Dmitry entertains the idea of running away for a second, before he pictures himself knocked down and brought to the palace against his will. Better be cooperative, if only because he doesn’t want the headache that comes with a blow to the head. Been here, done that way too many times for it to be healthy.

So he does follow her down the street, and the guard follows the both of them from a distance. Which is unnerving, to say the least. He couldn’t live all his life with a shadow following him around, staring down at him; there is no freedom in that kind of a life.

She slows down so he can walk next to her, her strides long and purposeful. At least she knows where she’s going this time, even if she’s taking the long way around. Dmitry hesitates, just for a moment, before he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into a back alley between two shops. She gasps loudly.

“Run,” he whispers into her ear.

And running she does. He still holds her wrist as he guides her through the labyrinth of Petersburg’s lesser known paths, and not once does she struggles to keep up with him. The pounding of the guard’s steps behind them slowly fades away in the distance as Dmitry moves around the back alleys and narrow streets like he owns them. A map of the city is branded into his brain, and he could find his way blindfolded if needed.

They stop behind a baker’s shop, the air smelling like fresh bread, his panting breath swallowed by her loud giggles. Her cheeks are red, hair falling in her eyes, hands on her hips, and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. Open the bird’s golden cage and watch her fly. A sight for sore eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks between laughs. Her eyes sparkle just so in the dim light of the alley, little wrinkles around the corners.

“So many things,” he replies, almost smuggly. He even forgets that he was mad at her not five minutes ago, because. Well because he loves this, the thrill of a good run, the feeling of Petersburg under his feet and around him. He loves his city so much it hurts sometimes, and it’s good to share that with someone. To show his side of the curtain that is not all opera houses and fine restaurants and driving around in an expensive car. “The Palace is just around the corner, come.”

She does follow him, at a more leisurely pace this time. It is not even five minutes before a small alley leads them to the main road by the Neva bank, with the Winter Palace to their left. It looks imposing as ever, even when she leads him around the building instead of going through the main entrance doors. Instead, they make their way in from a small door at the back that leads to the kitchens – people don’t even bow as she walk past them, even if a few mutter a word of greeting to her. They carry on with their own business of cooking diner and baking bread and cleaning pots like having the Grand Duchess sneaking through the kitchens is perfectly normal. Dmitry blinks in confusion, opinions readjusting as he goes, as he follows her down a corridor and up a flight of stairs.

All around Dmitry are golden details, heavy tapestries, giant portraits. Just one of those candelabras could feed an entire family for over three months. This chair is probably older than him by a century. That samovar looks simply decadent. His eyes jump from one object to the next until he feels dizzy, until he doesn’t know where to look next. This is all ridiculous, and a little too much, if he is quite honest. He can barely afford two chairs in his own apartment, and one has been unstable for months.

She opens a heavy door next and leads him into what seems to be a small boudoir – is that how those things are called? – with a bookshelf taking over most of the walls and a loveseat by the window. A woman is sitting on it, nose in a book, and she looks up upon their entrance. Her light brown hair is pulled away from her round face, and her big, blue eyes light up when she notices them. Maria Romanova, doubtlessly.

“Tu es de retour !” she exclaims in French as she closes her book and stands up. She walks the distance separating her from her sister, if only to grab her hand. “Comment était ta sortie ?”

“Enrichissante,” she replies, eyes widening and eyebrows rising in an almost comedic manner. It does make her sister laugh, even though Dmitry has no idea what they are saying. Perhaps she indeed made the most delightful of jokes. Perhaps the joke even was at his expense. She switches back to Russian when she adds, “Maria, this is Dmitry. Dmitry, my sister Maria.”

Dmitry finds himself at a loss all of a sudden and, when Grand Duchess Maria smirks, it definitely is at his expense this time. He stands there, hands clasped behind his back, as he tries to babble some kind of answer. Should he bow to her? Kiss her hand? Do something else he isn’t aware of? Nobody ever told him how to act when introduced to royalty, and he’s already making a fool of himself after only two minutes in Maria Romanova’s presence.

“Tu ne m’avais pas dit qu’il était aussi séduisant,” Maria comments, looking at him dead in the eyes. Dmitry finds himself squirming on the spot, unable to understand a single word coming out of her pretty red lips. He knows they are doing it on purpose, to have a secret conversation about him, but the feeling is unnerving.

“Il n’est pas séduisant que ça,” Anastasia answers with a pout, folding her arms on her chest in an almost defensive manner. Dmitry looks between her and her sister, as if it could suddenly help him make sense of the conversation. She points to her own nose as she adds, “Son nez est de travers.”

Maria tilts her head to the side, her eyes still not leaving his face. Dmitry finds himself blushing under her knowing gaze, though he has no idea why. She is far from his type of woman, as pretty as she is, but there is something in the blue of her eyes – like she knows too much about him already. “Il a dû se le casser quand il était plus jeune. Cela ajoute une part de mystère, tu ne penses pas ?”

Anastasia rolls her eyes in such a dramatic manner that Dmitry is afraid they will get stuck at the back of her head. She grumbles something under her breath, before she moves toward the loveseat where her sister was sitting just moments before, and leans forward to pick up the book. “Tolstoy t’a rendue bien trop romantique, Masha.”

Maria is the one rolling her eyes, as she follows her sister to the window, the both of them leaving Dmitry rooted on the spot. He doesn’t dare moving, least something happens to him. All he can do is watch the two young women bickering in French in front of his eyes. A few words sound familiar to his ear, if only because they sound close to Russian, but he otherwise still doesn’t have a clue what they might be talking about. Him, for sure, but in a positive or negative manner, he couldn’t tell.

“They are arguing over how attractive you actually are,” an amused voice comes from his left, startling him. 

He can only gasp in surprise at the man standing next to him, scrambling to offer the newcomer a polite bow. He has no idea what an actual bow looks like, or what he is supposed to say or not say, but Dmitry is trying his best, one hand in front of him, the other at his back. “Your Imperial Highness…”

“Please, don’t,” Alexei Romanov stops him, one hand raised in front of him. Dmitry freezes mid-bow, looking at the young Tsar under the curtain of hair that fell in front of his eyes. “We are among friends here. You may call me Alexei.”

Dmitry will never do that, but he doesn’t voice the sentiment. Instead, he nods numbly, and stands straight once more. The Tsar is nothing like he expected him to be – starting with how small he is, compared to his late, imposing father. He is smaller than Dmitry, but not as tiny as his sister, and looks more like a boy than a man. Where his father was never seen out of his white military uniform, Alexei Romanov wears simple clothes. The people’s Tsar, some royalists call him; Dmitry sees it now, the lack of decorum, the simplicity he emanates.

“So you are Nastya’s street rat,” he says next. 

Anastasia reacts at the sound of her own name, abandoning her argument with her sister so she can move closer to her brother. She grabs his arm between hers and, from this close, it is almost startling how much they look like each other – the same blue eyes, the delicacy of their features, even the way they hold themselves. “He’s not a street rat, brother,” she laughs softly. Then, with a playful wink to Dmitry, “At least, not anymore.”

Dmitry’s cheeks are on fire again, though more in shame than in embarrassment this time. He isn’t too proud of his illegal past, even if he didn’t have any other choice – it was this or starving to death as a child, and Dmitry was too stubborn to die back then. Now he has a legit yet boring job in a factory, a roof above his head each night, and food in his belly. What only looked like a fantasy when he was a scrawny teenager turned to reality thanks to the new government.

“I…” he starts, before swallowing down nervously. “I’m sorry, I…”

He’s stopped – not that he had any idea where he was going with this – by the banging of the door against the wall, startling them all. Anastasia’s guard stands in the doorframe, out of breath and angry. “Alexei, your sister…” he starts, before his eyes fall on Dmitry and harden. “You!”

The clicking sound of a gun echoes in the silence of the boudoir as the guard walks toward Dmitry. His eyes widen in fear, heart leaping in his throat even as he forces himself to stand his ground. Dmitry is not afraid of death – he had too many close encounters with it as a child – but still he panics at the sight of the gun, and the fury in the man’s eyes.

“Gleb!” Anastasia exclaims, as she moves from behind Dmitry to put herself between him and her guard. “I’m fine, see? Dmitry was looking after me.”

“He  _ kidnapped _ you in front of my eyes!”

“Put the gun down, Vaganov!” Maria exclaims. “You’re just making a fool of yourself.”

The guard does as he’s told, although a little too slowly for Dmitry’s confort. His eyes don’t waver from the gun, even as the other man puts the security back on with a click before he puts the gun back to his hip holster. A shaky breath escapes Dmitry’s lips, low and silent, as the cotton in his brain slowly disappears. Anastasia’s fingers squeeze his, for only a moment, striking in how comforting this flitting gesture is. He looks at her, but she’s glaring at her guard instead, who glares back at her.

“You are ridiculous,” she states coldly. 

“It is my duty to…” the guard.

“Oh, screw your duty!” she almost yells. “We’re not made of sugar, so stop it!”

And then she’s storming out of the room. Maria hesitates just for a moment, looking between the guard and the door several times, before she takes off after her sister. The Tsar looks unphased, both by the situation and by his sister’s furious reaction, simply folding his arms on his chest as he faces the royal guard with the tiniest hint of a smirk.

“We appreciate your help,” he tells the guard, “even if some of us have a hard time showing it.”

“Thank you,” the man replies, with a respectful nod. “May I be dismissed of my duties for the day?”

“Of course.”

The man nods again, before he offers Dmitry a murderous glare. Dmitry replies with an equally hard stare. “Do that again, and it will be your body at the bottom of the Neva.”

“I’m shivering,” Dmitry replies sarcastically, if only to hide to tremor in his voice. He doesn’t know the man, but everything about him screams Bolshevik instead of Royal Guard, and it unnerves him. He has no idea how such a man could find himself so close to the Tsar and Grand Duchesses, but such zele in his work is never good for anyone involved.

Thankfully the man takes his leave after that, and then it is only Dmitry and the Tsar, alone in the boudoir. The younger man offers Dmitry an amused glance, before he asks him to follow. And so Dmitry does, and is led through another ridiculously golden hallway until the Tsar open a door leading to what very obviously is his personal office. A wooden, heavy desk stands in the middle of the room, with a throne-like chair on one side. There are books everywhere, and the portrait of the late imperial couple on one wall. It looks very cold, and very official; a little  _ too _ official, perhaps. 

“Please, sit down,” the Tsar offers, with a gesture to the two leather chairs on the other side of the desk.

Dmitry does so without a word, too acutely aware of the way the Tsar sits behind his desk and moves around a few papers before he grabs a pen. He looks like a child playing pretend, in a chair so big it dwarfs him. Dmitry remembers that he was only fifteen when he was put on the throne, and nowhere near ready for all the responsibilities of such a massive job and title. He’s done so well, all things considered.

“Nastya said you were an honest man, and I believe her judgment,” is how the Tsard decides to start. “So allow me to be honest too. I don’t know my people, I have no idea what happens outside of the palace’s walls. I don’t trust my advisers, because they don’t all have Russia’s best interests at heart. Power make people dishonest and selfish, and I don’t want to follow in my father’s steps. I want what is best for my people, but I don’t know what  _ best _ is. One man will tell me one thing, and one another thing, and it is difficult for me to tell right from wrong at times.”

Dmitry is frowning all through the Tsar’s speech but, along with what Anastasia had told him earlier by the bridge, it is all starting to make sense. Ridiculous, yes, but it makes sense.

“You want me to… help you? Advise you?”

“Something like that, yes,” the Tsar smiles. “You’re as lower class as it goes, no offense. You know more about Russia than I ever would.”

Dmitry opens his mouth, but thinks better of it. His tongue has betrayed him more than once in his life, and he knows to be careful with his words, especially in times like this. It takes him a few more seconds to gather his thoughts properly, and the Tsar patiently waits for his answer. “I’ve never left Petersburg, this is the only world I know. I can’t speak for everyone in Russia; I sure as hell can’t speak for rural Russia, or people in other cities, or…”

“But it would be a start,” the Tsar replies. “At least one step in the right direction, until I find a better way to deal with all the issues I am still unaware of.”

Dmitry leans back in his chair, folding one leg over the other. He remains silent for a moment longer, a smight pout on his face, before he says, “May I be honest with you now?”

The Tsar raises an eyebrow, but still motions for him to go on with a wave of his hand.

A tiny smirk settles on Dmitry’s lips as he says, “You’ve shown more will to help your people in five minutes than your father has done his entire life.”

Much to his surprise, the Tsar laughs. “I will take that as a compliment. My father was a formidable head of family, but not such a good head of state. If only he’d realised that before it was too late.”

Dmitry is smiling too, before he asks, “You would pay me for this? Really?”

“Knowledge is power, Dmitry. Never forget that.” The Tsar stands up then and walks around the desk, if only so he can lean against it in front of Dmitry. “Nastya seems quite keen on finding out for herself too, so your wage could include showing her around town too if you feel up to the task.”

Dmitry raises an eyebrow. “Chaperoning the Grand Duchess?”

It is the Tsar’s time to smirk, and the slope of his smile hides many a secret about his sister. “Not an easy task. Just ask Gleb.”

“Can I think about it?” Dmitry asks. 

It all seems too beautiful, too perfect. What would his father think of it all, him working for the Tsar? Him working toward making a better Russia, a Russia for the people? Never has Dmitry been more conflicted in his life, and he needs at least a good night of sleep to put his thoughts in order and rationalise everything.

“Of course,” the Tsar agrees easily, before offering his hand for Dmitry to shake. “I will await your answer until tomorrow evening.”

Dmitry nods, and shakes the Tsar’s hand, before he is shown outside the office. Anastasia is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall and still a little peeved by what happened with her guard. Nobody else is in sight, beside one servant walking down the hallway with a handful of white linens in her hands. The palace is eerily quiet, Dmitry notices for the first time.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Anastasia asks him without an ounce of hesitation. She grins mischievously as she adds, “Or will your wife be worried if you go home late?”

“Oh, do shut up,” he mumbles even as he follows her down the hallway.

She laughs, loud and amused, her head thrown back. Not for the first time, Dmitry’s eyes are attracted by the fair expense of her neck, and he notices the two small moles under her throat. For the first time, he admits to himself that this might all be a big mistake.

 

…

 

Sleeping on it doesn’t help. Perhaps because Dmitry didn’t sleep much at all. He spent the night having dinner with Anastasia and Maria Romanov, which is something he never thought he could have said in his entire life. The both of them were delightful hostesses, not that he expected any more from ladies of the high society such as them. They told him many a tale of naughty children spending their summers in the Crimea, or playing hide and seek in massive palaces. Anastasia, particularly, stuck him with the dramatic way she could tell stories, adding funny voices and expressions when needed be, as well as hand gestures when she was getting excited about her own tales.

The Tsar didn’t make an appearance, too busy with paperwork that he was, and Dmitry learnt that the Grand Duchess Tatiana is currently visiting Moscow, which explains her absence. He already knew the Grand Duchess Olga left for Great Britain a few months ago, to be lady-in-waiting to the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth, after her wedding to George VI. 

“She’s learning everything there is to know about being a Queen, in case…” Maria had started, but never finished her sentence.

In case something happens to the Tsar before he marries and produces a heir. Before he gets killed like his father was, before an accident happens, before, before, before. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the imperial family is frightened of meeting their parents’ fates and, not for the first time, Dmitry wonders what happened in Yekaterinburg. The mystery of the Romanov siblings’ survival remains unsolved, as nobody has spoken out about the events of that dreadful night.

Still, as enjoyable as fine dining with two Grand Duchesses was, the question of Dmitry’s choice remains. He turned and turned in bed until the bleak morning light screened through his curtains, no more close to an answer than he was when he went to bed. He keeps wondering what his father would do, in his place, and never settles on a concrete answer. His father was a passionate but angry man. Never would he have agreed to speak to Nicholas the Bloody, let alone to work with him. But Dmitry is not his father, and neither is Alexei. And perhaps that is what makes such a difference.

But is Dmitry ready to leave his simple, peaceful life behind for something else? Something more? The pressure of doing good, for his people and his country, is so strong that he feels like throwing up when he thinks about it too much. What if he says something and it only makes everything worse? What if he has to admit some issues simply can’t be fixed? What if he is not up to the task, and the Tsar dismisses him after a few weeks? What if? What if?

He is still pondering as he wakes up and gets ready for work, pouring himself a cup of tea as he blearily stares out the window. Today is a nice spring day, the sun finally blessing them with its warmth after a long, cold winter. Which means too many hours spent smoking on the Neva bank again, not that Dmitry can complain; those are his favourite moments in Petersburg, when the sun sets on the city and everything is beautiful and peaceful, just for a moment.

He wishes his mind was peaceful too, but he isn’t that lucky a man. He’s still thinking about the Tsar’s proposal as he gets out of his building, and almost misses the person leaning against the wall altogether.

“Jesus,” he cusses when he finally notices her, his heart beating furiously against his chest. “Stop following me. He hates me enough as it is,” he adds with a nod toward her guard.

Anastasia shrugs, entirely shameless. “He enjoys being out of the palace as much as I do.” She follows him as he makes his way down the street, like an overeager puppy. “Where are you heading?”

“Work,” he replies flatly. “It’s this thing people do when their house isn’t entirely made of gold.”

“I know what work is,” she scoffs. “I work too.”

“Choosing the theme and food of the new imperial ball isn’t work. It’s just stuff they allow you to do so you keep busy.”

“Why are you so cruel?” she asks, and it startles him.

Is he? He doesn’t think so. But it is hard, to picture such a small, delicate creature with greasy coveralls and braided hair, working for hours on end to bring food on the table. Or working in a field, skin darkened by the sun and calloused fingers. Or with an apron around her narrow waist, pouring drinks and avoiding wandering hands and lewl comments.

She knows nothing of hard work, of going to bed exhausted and wake up with sore muscles and aching bones. She knows nothing of the real world, but it is not her fault. She was simply lucky to be born into the imperial family, to grow up with pretty dresses and delicate teas, powdered cakes.

“I’m not, I’m just…”

“Cynical?” she smiles. “We had a big tomcat when I was younger. Olga found him one day in the palace’s garden, all ugly and dirty. He was always grumpy. You reminds me of him.”

“Thanks. You do know how to pay a compliment.”

When she grins, obviously proud despite the sarcasm in his voice, it’s hard not to snort a laugh back. She makes his cynical heart a little less heavy, which is perhaps the worst argument when one is deciding whether or not they want to work for the Tsar. But, sadly, also an effective one. Dmitry refuses to think about what it means, refuses to put a name on that fluttering feeling in his chest when he looks at her, grinning against the rising sun, golden highlight in her hair and a skipping in her steps. He refuses to think what it would be like, to see her everyday, talk to her everyday, bicker with her everyday. It’s all too much, like a forbidden fruit just low enough to be in his reach but still too high for him to grab. 

“Alexei is a good man,” she tells him after long minutes of silence. They’re walking alongside the Neva now, and the streets are slowly filling with people on their way to work. Everything is quiet but for the sound of her voice. “I remember one day, he was just so happy. Couldn’t stop smiling all day, just because. And then he turned toward Mama, and he said that when he would be Tsar, nobody would be poor or unfortunate. He was so happy, and he wanted everyone else to be, too.”

She grins and shakes her head, and rubs her hands against the morning chill. She is wearing woolen fingerless gloves, and it makes Dmitry snicker a little at how much care was put into creating her outfit, down to the smallest of details. Which proves his point that she has too much free time for her own good, but. Oh, well.

“Obviously, things are not as easy as we thought they would be, but. Years later, and even after he’s witnessed the worst of humanity, he’s still trying. He still wants people to be happy.”

Dmitry muses on that for a moment. As with everything else since he met the royal family, he did not expect this, and has to adapt his opinions in the face of new facts. It is not all that comfortable, having everything you believe truth turned upside down in a matter of hours. His mind is spinning a bit, and it’s not all because of his lack of sleep. 

“He’s a good man,” Anastasia goes on softly. “I don’t want anything happening to him.”

And perhaps that does it for Dmitry, because he finds that he doesn’t want anything to happen to the Tsar either – not when they finally found one who actually gives a damn about his people, who is trying his best to change the way things have always been. The imperial family has been stuck in another century for so long, but maybe they’ve finally found someone to lead them into modern times, to ensure Russian shines in this new world. 

“Alright,” Dmitry says, almost in a sigh. “I’ll help you.”

He makes it sound like a bore, just not to give it to her too easily. Not that it matters, because she squeaks gleefully anyway, jumping up and down for a few seconds before she grabs both his hands. Hers are cold, despite the fingerless gloves, and so delicate they could as well be made of glass. He’s so afraid he might break her by mistake. 

“You won’t regret it,” she tells him, so confident and determined.

“You might,” he replies darkly. Just to be contradicting, just because he still isn’t entirely sure he is the right fit for that kind of a task. They might regret choosing him. He might be sent home soon with his tail between his legs. But he will have tried at least; that’s what his father would have wanted, for him to try. 

“Let’s go back to the palace!” she exclaims happily. “There’s so many issues we need to discuss!”

She grabs his hand too, the coarse wool of her gloves a sharp contrast to the delicate skin of her fingers, as she pulls him along and ignores his protests. He needs to go to work if he doesn’t want to be fired, but she reminds him that’s his job now. They will pay him, and far more than he would ever be able to make at the factory. He stops protesting after that, but also lets go of her when a quick glance over his shoulder reminds him her royal guard is still following them. Better not upset the man even more with his inappropriate hand-holding, just in case.

Anastasia once again leads him to the kitchen’s door, the same parade of maids and cooks as before, then drags him all the way to the Tsar’s office. For a moment, Dmitry wonders how busy the Tsar might be, if it means receiving someone at any given time, but the office is empty and he finds himself waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

It’s almost noon, and he’s made himself comfortable with a book in the chair facing the desk, when the door to the office opens. Enters the Tsar, once again dressed in casual clothes, who smiles at Dmitry upon noticing him sitting here by himself. He looks around him next, and scoffs loudly.

“I see my sister still hasn’t learnt the art of hospitality quite yet,” he says as he sits at his desk. “I do apologize for the wait. Nastya usually is much better at entertaining people.”

“It’s fine,” Dmitry replies, waving the book he still holds in his hand. “I kept myself busy.”

The Tsar smiles at him again, before he opens one drawer. Dmitry watches in almost fascination as the younger man takes out a fountain pen and a heavy notebook, taking off the pen’s lid to put it on the desk before he opens the notebook to a new, blank page. His every movements are calculated, organised, that of a man who has been through the same motions every day for a very long while. He writes something at the top of the page in delicate Cyrillic letters, underlines it, then leans back in his chair to look at Dmitry.

He looks so young, yet so serious and professional that it takes Dmitry by surprise. This man, barely more than a boy, is in charge of their vast country; on this man’s shoulders are the weight of so many responsibilities, and yet he looks like a young pup who just learnt how to shave. The cognitive dissonance makes Dmitry’s ears ring, just a little.

“The idea,” the young Tsar begins, his voice even but light, “would quite literally to pick your brain about how to improve the way things are in Petersburg. What we are doing wrong, and right, what we are missing, what should change. I have no idea if the improvements we have introduced these past few years are working, or even well received by the population.”

Dmitry nods along. This makes sense so far and, he has to admit, he quite likes the idea. Still not entirely sure he is up to the task, or how that qualifies as a full-time job, but he isn’t about to complain right now.

“So… Go on, then. Anything coming to your mind? Feel free to share anything at all.”

Dmitry opens his mouth, only to close it again and look away. Thoughts and ideas tangle up in his mind, so maybe he should make sense of them, put them in the right order, before he says anything at all. Unsurprisingly, he ends up running his mouth anyway.

“Well for the most part people are seeing you as a sympathetic leader, so they’re ready to give you the benefit of the doubt when you’re trying, and that’s a good thing. But Petersburg still needs a lot of fixing. Living conditions are a mess, especially for big families. Some factories only pay you a few kopeks a day, and lots of people can’t live on those wages. Free schools are a nice idea, but kids can’t go if it means losing another wage and not being able to put food on the table. Young girls still need to sell their bodies to survive. Women should be allowed access to more jobs, they’ve proven their worth during the Great War. Food is good, but not always plentiful. And some worry about the care given to the elders.”

The Tsar’s eyes are wide now and, when he was making notes as Dmitry started talking, his pen hover over the paper, unmoving. He most likely didn’t expect Dmitry to have so much to say so quickly, or to get worked up about it, voice rising until he started sounding like his father to his own ears. This might be too much for the Tsar, perhaps.

But then, something amazing happens: he smiles. A low chuckle escapes him and he shakes his head, a smile spreading on his lips as he moves the notebook closer to him and focuses back on the words on paper.

“Nastya was right. You  _ are _ good. Now, tell me more about the work conditions in factories.”

 

…

 

Dmitry spends an entire hour discussing with the Tsar before he excuses himself – another meeting awaits him, and he does not want to be late. Dmitry feels awkward, standing up respectfully when the Tsar stands up too, and being led to the door. Everything about the situation tastes surreal, like he still can’t quite comprehend how this is his life now. He is getting paid for this. 

“I’ll talk to you again in two days,” the Tsar says as he shakes his hand. 

Dmitry doesn’t have time to answer anyway before the younger man is gone, and he’s standing there in the empty hallway with no idea what to do next or how to leave the palace. He hesitates for a moment before going left, walking down the hallway until it opens on a large ballroom. All the walls are painted gold, huge crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and projecting soft rainbows on the floor. Dmitry blinks against the rich brightness of it all, before his eyes fall on the people standing in a corner of the ballroom. 

It’s his first time seeing Anastasia out of her street clothes – she now wears a blue dress, the soft fabric tightened around her waist by a bow, her hair up into a chignon. She’s a far cry from the dirty girl he met on the streets of Petersburg, more beautiful, more regal. 

She must feel his eyes on her, for she looks up from her conversation, a smile stretching on her lips. She beckons him to move closer with a wave of her hand and, ever the idiot, he does as he’s told. 

“We will need resupplying soon,” she tells the man in front of her. “What of the nurses’ training?”

“It’s going well, but we are still lacking a large number of women,” the man replies. 

She purses her lips, one finger rising up to tap against her mouth as she thinks. “Go through the money again, and raises the wedges as much as you can. We need to ensure they are aware we will pay good money for their work.”

“Very well, Your High–Anastasia.”

The frown she had when the man went for her title turns into another smile as he uses her name instead. He bows to her slightly before he makes his leave, until only Dmitry stands next to her in the empty ballroom. 

“Only picking colour schemes for the next party?” she teases, and laughs when he rolls his eyes at her. Vixen. 

She looks down at the notebook she hold, and scribbles down a few words in a messy handwriting. A few wisps of rebel hair fall from her chignon to frame her face, Dimitry’s fingers tingling with the need to tuck them back behind her hair. He shakes his head, and his thoughts. 

“Food.” She looks up at the single word, her eyes widening a little in surprise. “If you want women to train as nurses, promise them one hot meal for each day of training. They will come.”

A small, sincere smile blossom on her lips, before she closes her notebook and straightens. “I told you you would do a good job.”

“You never said such a thing,” he reminds him, not unkindly. He has no idea why he always has this urge to contradict her, but it is somewhat entertaining at this point. 

And so is the face she makes, surely ready for a retord of her own, before her stomach lets out a loud, undignified groan. Her eyes widen as she presses a hand to her stomach, then lets out something halfway between a huff and a giggle. 

“Looks like nurses aren’t the only one in need of a lunch. Come. You must be starving too.”

Dmitry swallow back a comment about how she knows nothing of starvation – a mean remark that would only ruin their amicable banter – as he follows her to the kitchen. The lunch rush is long gone now that it is early afternoon, only a few cooks remaining there to bake bread for this evening and clean the last pots and pans. 

Anastasia shows him to the table in the middle of the room, demanding that he sits, before she moves to an older woman in a corner of the room. She touches the other woman’s elbow and tells her something with a smile, their voices too soft to carry across the room. They talk for a few more moment before the older woman steps a little to the side and lets Anastasia grabs a few things here and there.

It is not long before she comes back to Dimitry, with a few slices of bread in one hand and a plate of cheese in the other. A simple meal for a not-so-simple woman, but Dmitry isn’t stupid enough for those kinds of comments when food is offered.

Instead he grabs a slice of bread and busies himself cutting the cheese, before he shoves everything in his mouth with little care for etiquette. If the Duchess’ surprised, then amused, eyes are anything to go by, she isn’t all that used to spending time with people who eat straight from the plate, no cutlery needed.

She is more delicate with the way she gets her own food ready, and is careful to finish her first mouthful before she speaks up. “How are you finding it at the palace so far?”

Dmitry replies, mouth still half-full of bread, like the street rat heaten he is. “Okay, I guess. Beats working at the factory any day.”

She stills, just a little, body unmoving but eyes following his every move as he rips another piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. This silent reaction says a lot more about her, and how sheltered she is from the outside world, than anything else in their interactions so far. That she probably didn’t even think he could should this as a lesser of two evils instead of as this great opportunity offered to him on a silver platter.

“Alexei said…” she starts, before she pauses to look for her words, “He said you might be willing to show me around if I asked nicely.”

“Is that you asking?” he teases, left corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. “Cause that isn’t so nice.”

She grabs a crumble of bread and throws it at his face, the motion so unexpected he can only burst into laughter. One maid stops in her work to stare at them, just a few seconds, before she focuses back on the pot in front of her. Dmitry doesn’t miss the smile on her face though, amused and caring.

“Please, Dmitry, would you be so kind as to show me around town, I would be so grateful of this generous opportunity,” Anastasia replies, her voice borderline on sarcastic by now.

He refuses to think about how much he loves that he found someone seemingly able to match his wits, and to best him at it even. Refuses to think about anything else after that. “Bit much, but okay.” He grabs a piece of cheese, and munches on it thoughtfully. “What’s his face will need to come with us, though? Not exactly stealthy.”

She opens her mouth in an almost gasp, as if ready to say something, before she thinks before of it and closes her mouth with a little pout. It is not the first time Dmitry watches her react this way; definitely a little quirk of hers. One of the many he’s already starting to learn and catalogue, and isn’t that a scary thought. 

“Nah, I’ve got you, it’ll be fine!” she shrugs. 

 

…

 

“Point and shoot. Pretty self-explanatory.”

Dmitry holds the pistol in the palms of his hands, barely daring to wrap his fingers around the cold metal. It is tiny, way smaller than a normal weapon, as to hide it in his pocket and not attract attention. Which makes it worse, in Dmitry’s opinion. 

The Tsar’s agreement to let his sister wander the streets of Petersburg without her guard had come with a list of prerequisites. Which leaves Dmitry with a Duchess at his side, a pistol in his hands, and a grumpy guard explaining how to use one to save the other. Not exactly how he’d expected his day to go when he’d woken up this morning, but this is apparently the new normal. He only has to get used to it. 

“And in case of bigger trouble, find a Royal Guard. They will recognise her on sight.” A pause. “In ten years by their side, I only ever had to use a weapon once. Don’t take this as an opportunity to outdo me.”

“Once?” Dmitry asks, but Gleb is done talking. 

He turns his back to Dmitry, if only to start lecturing Anastasia about the dangers of the outside world, like a mother scolding her child on their first day of school. And by the look of it – the Duchess’s hand clasped in front of her as she bounces on the balls of her feet, unable to hide her grin – the lecture is falling on deaf ears. Not that Dmitry expected anything else from her. 

It is another five minutes before Gleb deems them ready for their little outing, and she doesn’t need more to grab Dmitry’s hand and pull him along. She almost dislocates his shoulder out of its socket with how hard she tugs on it, and Dmitry has no choice but to widen his strides to keep up with her. This, definitely, is a bad idea. 

He at least has the good word not to show her the shadiest parts of Petersburg, not quite yet. She wants to see a market and so that is where they head first, wandering from stall to stall and chatting up to the merchants like it is nobody’s business. She buys them two shiny, round apples to bite into at they keep walking. Sometimes her fingers wrap around his hand to pull him toward something or to get his attention, and each time Dmitry has to fight against the way his heart leaps into his throat. 

Their little outing only lasts a few hours, both before Anastasia is getting overwhelmed and because Dmitry doesn’t want to try his luck. He would bring her all the way to Moscow if she asked, probably. Better not to give her the time to ask. Or to realise the power she always has on him. 

Soon they find themselves walking past the Nikolaevsky Palace to make their way back to the river bank, and then to the Winter Palace. The sun is slowly starting to set, leaving place to Dmitry’s favourite part of the day. When the entire city turns to golden hues and soft shadows, only a few people in the street and even fewer clouds in the sky. Soon it will be pitch black but for the stars and the moon, but for the light of a candle burning at a window. But for now, he tilts his head back and let the sun’s last rays kiss his face, eyes closed, smile on his lips.

“I love this city so much,” he finds himself whispering, just low enough for it to be a secret shared with the Grand Duchess.

She nudges his side with her skinny elbow, effectively having him open one eye again to look at him. Her smile is amused at best. Even a little fond, if he lets his mind wander to impossible fantasies for a second too long. “Why?” she asks, soft, curious. Before meeting her, it’d never occur to Dmitry that his thought might be worth sharing.

Words fail him as he grabs her hand and pulls her toward the large bridge in front of them. Largest in all of Europe! some like to brag, but Dmitry isn’t so sure it is the truth anymore. Not that anyone cares, really. Not that he does, especially not as he drags Anastasia along, until he climbs on the banister, holding himself up with one hand holding a lamp post while the other is stretched out for the Duchess to grab.

She hesitates, just for a moment, before the spirit that led her to the streets of Petersburg in the first place takes over once more. Her fingers are cold and delicate in his hand, and she gasps a laugh as he pulls her up. One hand around her waist to hold her so she doesn’t meet a cruel end at the bottom of the Neva, his own heart beating a fast tempo against his ribcage.

“Look how small your palace is from here, princess,” he laughs.  The Winter Palace is only a blur of greens and whites in the distance. Small. Almost insignificant, but Dmitry will not go that far.

“Tell me,” she asks again in the middle of a laugh.

He licks his lips, looking for his words. He’s never been good at words, has too many of them. Only in one language too, when he knows she speaks at least four of them. But he tries, and maybe that is the most important part.

“I used to be there as a child,” he starts, pointing to the quay. “Selling stolen souvenirs to rich tourists. For a very long time this was all I knew, the alleyways behind me and the palace way above. This city, it’s all I know, all I’ve always known but… Look at her.” He doesn’t exactly mean to pull Anastasia closer to his side, but suddenly she’s leaning against him, her fingers wrapped around the fabric of his shirt to keep her balance, his arm still solid around her. “When it’s like this, the sky so clear and beautiful, the sun turning everything to those colours. How could you not love such a city? How could you want to see anything else?”

“It’s beautiful,” she confirms softly, a starstruck smile on her lips. In that moment, with the sun turning her hair into gold and her eyes shining like a hundred stars, she is  Zorya Vechernyaya incarnated, ready to close the doors t o Dažbog’s palace for the night. Surely such a comparison would have upset her pious mother but in that moment, with Anastasia by his side and her smile lightening up the world, he cannot find more fitting comparison.

A moment passes between them, both unable to look away from each other’s eyes, before Dmitry jumps back down. He drags Anastasia along with him, so she screeches and holds on to him before her feet are on the ground once more. Any other day, any other woman, this would have earned him a slap, on the shoulder or on the cheek. But with her, he is only rewarded with the loudest, most joyful laugh on earth.

“My father used to bring me here on Sundays after church,” he goes on, pretending to be the man he lost, holding a little boy on his shoulders, “‘From there you can see all the way to Finland, Dima!’”

She laughs once more. “Dima?”

His own chuckle is low, and perhaps a little sad. “Nobody called me that in a very long while,” he admits. Not since the early years of the Revolution, not since he came back from school one morning to find their room empty, his father nowhere to be seen. Not since the streets, and the empty stomachs and cold winter nights.

She must read some of the melancholy for days long past on his features, for she steps forward and grabs his hand. “I miss my parents too.”

It is not the same, he wants to tell her, but he knows it would only manage to hurt her. An orphan is an orphan, after all, and even the richest orphan in all of Russia misses her parents dearly, mourned them, loved them. Even Nicholas the Bloody was a father whose children miss him, as foreign a concept as it is.

So he smiles at her, kind and a bit sad. “Let’s get you home now, Duchess.”

She nods and puts her hand in the crook of his elbow, leading him off the bridge and back to the riverbank. Only a few people are left wandering the streets, all of Petersburg inside to get ready for dinner or a night shift, which leaves the quay for them to wander alone. Anastasia soon grows bored of walking quietly by his side, and a smile settles on Dmitry’s lips as she skips in front of him. She has the energy of the child she was never truly allowed to be, despite only being two years younger than him. A grown woman, still with her head in the clouds because she wishes it to be there. There is something to be said about that, perhaps.

She plucks at her fingerless gloves the moment they enter the kitchens, shoving them in her pockets before she unwraps her scarf from around her neck and strodes into the palace. Dmitry has no other choice but to follow her, if only because the pistol still weighs heavily inside his own pocket and he would like to get rid of it as soon as he can. Which happens to be very soon, as they find Gleb in a salon, deep in discussion with Maria and the Tsar.

“See?” Dmitry can’t help but announce smugly, waving at the youngest Grand Duchess. “All in one piece.”

Both sisters start talking above each other, grabbing at the other’s arms and laughing excitedly. Their discussion is half-Russian half-French, and way too high-pitched and excited for anyone to dare try and understand a word of what they are saying. It doesn’t stop the Tsar for looking fondly at the both of them, though, with the kind of love only shared by family. Or by bonds forged in the pits of hell when none of them thought they would come out of it alive, perhaps, but Dmitry likes the first option better.

“Well done,” is Gleb’s sardonic answer. It might only be the Tsar’s presence that stops him from clapping sarcastically. Instead, he holds out his hand, and Dmitry all too happily gives him back the weapon, a sigh of relief on his lips.

“I will see you in two days, then,” the Tsar says next, a reminder of their meeting.

Dmitry is about to nod and take his leave, when Anastasia turns her head toward him. She is still holding both of the sister’s elbows, the two of them in each other’s space, and yet all of her attention is on Dmitry now. “And I will see you tomorrow?” she asks, almost tentatively. Like he could refuse, if he wanted.

Does he want to?

“You know where to find me,” is his answer instead.

She grins at him, a smile to outshine the sun, before she goes back to her happy conversation with her sister. She will find him indeed, and perhaps one day Dmitry will be a brave enough man to say no to her. But as for now he is a foolish man, with a foolish heart.

Those never made for good choices in life.

 

…

 

Summer is a blur of meetings with the Tsar, outings with the Grand Duchess, and awkward dinner with the Imperial family. Dmitry’s new normal, that he comes to accept after a few weeks and a pay so big he has no idea what to do with so much money at first. His bank account has laid empty for so long that even the banker looks suspiciously at him until he shows the letter of employment the Tsar’s secretary penned a week after he started working at the Winter Palace. 

The banker accepts the letter with bulging eyes, and apology, and an offer for a cup of tea. Dmitry almost, but not quite, scoffs in his face. 

When the second month rolls out, he figures he is rich enough to afford a flat of his own, overlooking the Neva. But he actually likes his current place, and the bitter old woman he shares it with, and her damn Sunday blinis. No point representing the people if he no longer is one of them, anyway. 

So he keeps it quiet – an easy thing to do when you have no family and very little friends to begin with. Russians know better than to ask questions anyway; the failed Revolution left its marks, in more ways than one. 

Today is a Monday, and a day off for Dmitry. He doesn’t meet with the Tsar until tomorrow, and the youngest Duchesses went to Peterhof for some kind of play held for them, which means Anastasia will sleep until afternoon and then spend the evening grumbling over her headache. He saw it once, just long enough to find it hilarious and to know he's better off away from the Palace on such instances. A hangover Duchess doesn’t make for pleasant company, after. 

He finds his way toward the riverbank, as he so often does. The smell of salty water and the view of the city, street empty of their inhabitants, makes for lonely but peaceful times. So he rolls a cigarette and puts it to his lips, burning match halfway to his mouth when someone comes to stand next to him. 

For a moment, he believes her to be Anastasia. But the woman is taller and skinnier, her cheeks hollowed by hunger and her skin pale with too little time spent in the sun. Marfa. 

Dmitry finishes lighting up his cigarette and flicks the match into the Neva, before he grabs the tin box containing his tobacco once more and opens it for her. She rolls some of it into a ball and pops it into a mouth to chew on it happily. An habit that has always grossed him out. 

“Is it true what they say?” she asks bluntly. Everything about her is blunt; a life on the streets does that to you. “That you traded us for a tight Imperial cunt?”

“Don’t be vulgar, it never suited you.” He drags on his cigarette, lets the smoke fill his lungs before it escapes through his nose. “Who’s saying that?”

He hasn’t exactly been discreet about his visits to the Palace, even though he hasn’t told anyone in so many words. But any person following him in the morning would have been led to the Palace’s kitchens, left to draw their own conclusions. He just wants to know who exactly is spreading rumours. Well, who started it, really. Everyone is spreading all kinds of rumours, legends, lies. That’s Petersburg for you. 

Marfa, true to herself, isn’t much help. She shrugs and opens her palm up to him, wiggling his fingers when Dmitry does nothing more than stare at it. When he relents and puts a coin in her hand, it’s with a tired sigh. She smiles at him as she hides the coin in her corsets. 

“Paulina was getting worried after weeks of not seeing you. We miss your pretty face, you know.” She cups his chin between two of her fingers, stroking it a bit. “Not enough of those in the house.”

Before the factory, he used to earn a few kopeks like that. Working for a Madam whose heart is colder than Siberia but who doesn’t allow harm to come to her girls. Dmitry roughened a few faces for bruised girls, for dirty money. He didn’t quite become a regular after that but. 

Paulina was sweet and pretty and had a kind smile. And Russian nights can be long and lonely for a man like him. Better use of his money than cheap vodka that burns down his throat and burns what little of his brain he has left. 

“Just found a new job, is all. No much time for pleasure.”

The lie rolls easily in his tongue but rings to his ears. Beside his meetings with the Tsar twice a week, he’s done nothing but being the Duchess’s plaything. Showing her around town. Helping her with errands. Flirting back every time she bats her eyelashes at him. There is much pleasure to be found in being wanted, though not in the way Paulina wants him.

“But if you’re in trouble…” he goes on. The last thing he wants is for the girls to worry about drunkards and violent men, now that he no longer spends time with them. 

“Believe it or not, but we can survive without you.” She grins around her ball of tobacco. “Dunya actually quit to become a nurse. Said she likes the idea of a hot meal a day more than that of opening her legs to any man with a coin. Go figure.”

Dmitry can barely holds back a smile. It is one thing to know the Tsar is making small changes along the way, depending on the problems Dmitry lays in front of him and the simplest ways to tackle them with it being too overwhelming for Petersburg. It is an entirely different thing altogether to see those changes in motion. Those changes having an impact on the lives of people he knows. 

“She always did help with girls in labour,” he comments. 

Marfa hums noncommittally. She’s never been one to dream of a life outside of the brothel anyway. And, until two months ago, Dmitry had never been one to dream of a life outside of the dirty streets and back alleys. Funny how life can change so radically in such a short period of time. 

“Come and visit sometimes, okay?” is what she says next instead. “That little cunt is too golden for you anyway. Only a street whore for a street rat.”

He smiles at her, tight-lipped, as she strokes his face one last time before she steps away. Her hips sway until she’s disappeared around the corner. Nothing particularly enticing about it anymore. 

 

…

 

Tatiana Romanova comes back from Moscow I’m a Thursday afternoon. 

Dmitry is spending time in the petit boudoir with Maria, who is determined this week to teach him how to play chess. So far it has only ended up in a jumble of rules he gets mixed up, and thus in him losing after five minutes every time. But Maria is as stubborn as she has time to waste, apparently, and they’ve been at it for hours. 

Anastasia is nowhere to be seen, not that it is surprising. If the Tsar spends all of his days dragged from one meeting to the next, only coming out for a meagre lunch, the Duchesses’ schedules are lost on Dmitry. Their tasks are as numerous as they are varied, leading them from one end of the Palace to the next, keeping them busy for hours then free for days. 

He’s learnt to arrive at the Palace in the morning, get a book from their personal library, and wait until one sister comes and fetch him. It has been working well for everyone so far. 

Anastasia drags him out, the Tsar makes him talk, and Maria teaches him chess. Everyone is happy. 

“Who are you?”

His head snaps up at the question. Maria lets out a loud squeal of delight as she jumps to her feet, knocking half the pieces over in the process, and flings herself at the newcomer. Her sister, for it is her without the ounce of a doubt, welcomed her into her arms even though her eyes never waver from Dmitry’s face. 

He’s seen her before, in portraits and newspapers. They say she is the most beautiful of the four, with the finesse of her nose and the delicacy of her features, the silk of her voice. But now, standing straight and glaring daggers at him, she holds all of the coldness of Siberia. Her mother’s daughter through and through. 

“I – well, I –” he stammers pathetically as he jumps to his feet, only to lower into a sad excuse of a bow. “It’s an honour, Your Imperi–”

“Don’t.” One word, enough to stop him in his tracks, frozen into a half-bow and scared to move. She turns to her little sister, her stern features softening ever so slightly. “Masha, who’s that man.”

“His name is Dmitry,” she answers simply, as if unaware of the tension in the room. Or, more likely, as if ignoring it. “He’s a friend.”

Which, while true at this point, barely seems to convey the true reason as to Dmitry’s presence in the Palace. Tatiana must see through her sister’s lies and half-truths, for a frown settles on her brows as her eyes travel between Dmitry and the youngest Romanov. 

“Je pensais que tu…” 

Maria blushes so deeply she turns into the red of her enemies. “Rien n’a changé là-dessus,” she answers, not without difficulty. “C’est un ami fidèle, tu peux me croire.”

Dmitry looks between the two of them, lost and confused. It is not the first times the Romania’s speak French in front of him for secret conversations he is not privy of, but it is unnerving all the same every time. He ought to learn the language by now, if only to understand when Anastasia and Maria talk about him under the guise of French. 

Tatiana doesn’t say anything for a few more seconds, before she slowly turns to face him. Her arm is still wrapped around Maria’s waist, holding her sister close to her even as her attention switches to Dmitry. “It is nice to make your acquaintance. Please, restrain from calling me by my title from now on.”

Never going to happen, but maybe it’s just the thought that counts. “Nice to meet another lovely sister,” is his careful answer, followed by a bow of his head. 

She stares at him for a moment longer, silent in her judgement of him, before she turns back to her sister. Her fingers are pale and delicate as they brush against Maria’s cheeks. “The journey was exhausting so I’ll rest in my room. I will see you all at dinner, all right?”

Maria nods, and hugs her sister once more. They whisper into each other’s ear for a few moment before Tatiana detaches herself from her younger sister and leaves the petit boudoir. 

The room falls into silence as the door closes on her, before Dmitry lets out a deep sigh that turns into a bit of a whine. Maria laughs at his face. 

“Tanya has a little too much of our mother’s intensity in her, but she means well.”

“She doesn’t need Gleb following her around,” Dmitry comments as he falls back in his chair. “One glare and she turns you into ice.”

“I heard she turned a Bolshevik guard into a frog once,” Maria teases.

Her laugh grows louder when Dmitry grabs a rook and throws it at her face. 

Things don’t dramatically change as much as shifts into something slightly different now that Tatiana is back at the Palace. For one, Dmitry gets invited for dinner lest often now and, when he does, conversations are sparse and tensed. She never looks directly at him, but he still feels weighed, measured, and found wanting. It is not so much an odd feeling, more like a reminder of his place, a reminder that they are royals and he nothing more than a commoner playing pretend.

It shouldn’t hurt him as much as it does but, added to the fact that Gleb is now back to following them around like a shadow when Anastasia and he go outside… yes, it does sting. He thought he’d proven himself to the Imperial family, but perhaps not. Perhaps he will never be anything more than a street rat on a payroll to some of them.

Anastasia feeds off his negative energy during their next outing, not that he can particularly blame her for this. First, because he’s never been good at keeping his feelings to himself, and instead wears them on his sleeve for the entire world to see. And second, because he’s not exactly pleasant company when he’s in such a mood, and even the Duchess’s bubbly demeanour does little to ease the clouds in his mind.

“This is boring,” she huffs and puffs, grabbing his arm tightly between both of hers so she can lean against his shoulder with a pout. “Why are we doing boring stuff today, Dmitry?”

They’ve been walking around the Nevsky Prospekt for an hour or so now, stopping in front of this or that store so she can admire the dresses and shoes, the hats, the jewelry. She usually loves it, especially when she can see the new fashion from France and Italy, when she can use the few coins at the bottom of her pockets to buy a pair of gloves. He’s seen a dress on her not one week after seeing it behind a window, because of course she would have someone come buy and back stuff for her. So of course he thought the pretty fabrics would be enough to distract her from his bad mood.

And of course Anastasia is more perceptive than that.

He rubs his eyebrow with one finger, looking down at the ground. “‘Fraid I’m no good company today, princess.”

She stops and turns a little to look at him, head tilt up and brows frowned into a puzzled expression. The use of the nickname, to push her buttons and make her react, has the opposite effect. Now she is worried. Great.

“Is something the matter?” she asks, her voice soft and caring.

From the corner of his eye, Dmitry watches as Gleb pretends to be interested in the window of a bookstore to leave them some semblance of privacy. He doesn’t seem too cheery about having to follow them around once more, though Dmitry thinks there is something there, something more.

“I’m fine,” is all he finds to reply to Anastasia. “Just one of those days.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

It is stated with such strength, like she can’t quite believe he would lie to her face so easily, that Dmitry only snorts a little. If only she knew. Those past two months have been nothing but lying and tiptoeing around the truth, about swallowing back facts and blossoming new realities. Those past two months have been nothing but lying to her, and often to himself too.

He closes his eyes against the waves of feelings ready to submerge him, reminding himself that she is not the cause of his turmoil and he shouldn’t lash out at her just as an outlet to his emotions. But she’s here, glaring at him and accusing him of things, and something starts pounding against his skull, right between his eyes.

He sighs, shrugs her off his arm, and starts walking.

She catches up with him after only a few steps, planting herself in front of him, her hands on his chest. It does very little, except upset him some more. His heart is racing against his ribcage, against her cold but oh so burning hands. Her glare would make lesser men cower, but Dmitry isn’t one of those. He isn’t afraid of her, or her power. Years of survival in the streets of Petersburg will do that to you; when even death stops scaring you, a bratty little Duchess will do very little to inspire fear in your bones.

“Tell me,” she says. An order. A demand.

“What’s it to you anyway?” he spits back. “You’re paying me to entertain you. Don’t even pretend you care.”

And then he storms away. Gleb is a few feet behind them anyway; she’ll be fine.

 


End file.
